


Cat's Supernatural One Shots

by Writing Cat and Dog (CrowleyGirl)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 00:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10477554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowleyGirl/pseuds/Writing%20Cat%20and%20Dog
Summary: Exactly what it says. Permanent WIP.





	1. Hello, Father

Castiel entered the mess hall with his head held straight, looking as unflappable as always though he was greatly troubled by silence of angel radio and the knowledge that soon his brothers and sisters would be gone, but he expected it in a matter of days or weeks, not the very day that he had woken to dead telepathic air.  
As his eyes scanned the hall in search of Dean, they landed briefly on the writer once a prophet, back when prophecy still held water, back when the sacred Word meant more than a drunken, migraine scribble in the tallow-scented half light of a refugee camp. He was chewing a sandwich, relishing it as if it was the last sandwich in the entire world, as if this was the last moment in his life and he might as well find pleasure in it. They all lived like that these days.  
But none of that mattered all of a sudden. What made Castiel's eyes widen and his lips part a harsh gasp of surprise was that he could suddenly see every fibre of the room that he was standing in, the energy that connected benches to floorboards, plates to sandwiches and potato salad, and every being present to every other, and they all radiated outward from Chuck, sitting there enjoying his lunch.  
The world stood still for a moment, and it was almost as though Cas had died, the clear light of enlightenment dawning before him with a fervor that stole away his consciousness and left him empty and pure, elevated to a level of consciousness he would spend the rest of his life straining to reach through drugs and sex and every other means available, but would never find again. Then the gasp was torn from his lungs in an ear-splitting angel scream, the last ever to be heard on on Earth, and he went hard to his knees as the wings were ripped from his back. Dean was up in an instant, rushing to his side and holding him up, and as his arm fell across Cas's shoulders he issued another sharp scream, this one all too human. "Dean! Don't touch there," he grated out through clenched teeth as he shrugged off his overcoat and jacket. It was painful work, but with Dean's help he unbuttoned his white shirt and removed that as well, letting it fall to reveal two crescent shaped burns, one on each scapula. They were as bad as burns could get, covered in blisters and leaking serosanguinous goo down his back and onto Dean's hand as he tentatively - "I said don't touch there," he hissed. Dean took his hand away and held Cas's arm instead. "Can you walk?" A crowd had begun to gather, eager to see what had sent the bravest among them to the floor. Chuck was not in it. "I think so," he said, staggering to his feet and turning to leave the mess hall. Dean walked with him all the way to his cabin, up the front steps and inside, Only when the door snicked shut behind then did Cas allow himself to fall into Dean's arms and cry like a child. It was a week or so later, once Castiel could roll over in his sleep without waking up screaming, that he walked through Chuck's cabin door (it was never locked) and found the man at his desk, a pen in his hand and an empty page before him. Chuck looked up and smiled, wryly but not without warmth. "Hello, Castiel," he said. Cas swallowed hard before speaking. It came out a strangled whisper, thick with every possible emotion. "Hello, Father."


	2. Dear Jess

Sam kept a journal.  
No one knew about it, not even Dean. Just like he had said to his brother almost a decade ago, there were some things he needed to keep to himself, and that was why he made absolute certain to firmly lock his bedroom door before he turned to his writing desk and took from the drawer his latest marbled composition book, and after laying it on the table and picking out a writing utensil, opened it to a clean page, wrote the date down, and started:

Dear Jess,


	3. Heartfelt Destiel Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was high when I wrote this.

It had never been like this.

Even the way Dean had made love to Lisa couldn't hold a candle to the way Castiel made love to him. Every sweep of his fingertips was reverent, every brush of lips on fevered skin an act of worship in the religion of Dean. The way Cas said Dean's name was a prayer, grateful, desperate, calling out to the only god he knew for the only pleasure that had ever mattered.

"I love you," Dean cried, a broken whimper as Cas moved inside him, deep and slow, filling him with sensation and a delerious need to express something hidden so long even he had barely come to acknowledge it. It was like a dam in him had burst, and he just kept repeating those words. Moaning them.

"I love you."

Sobbing them.

"I love you."

Screaming them.

Then, later, whispering them, as he fell asleep in Cas's warm embrace.


End file.
